


Wing

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 13:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11670414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Erestor’s taken Lindir’s adoption into his own hands.





	Wing

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for dantemew’s “#22 Child please: Erestor adopts child Lindir. Could you include this exchange? 'Erestor says: He's mine now, my son. I'm keeping him. Someone else: That's not how the adoption process works.'” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/163120603835/prompt-list-4).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It used to be so easy for Erestor to get lost in work, and it’s still strange to him that he can’t _quite_ reach that stage anymore, where he’s so enveloped in his scrolls and quill that the outside world can’t penetrate his mind. When a soft ‘thunk’ sounds across the room, barely louder than the cries of the evening birds outside the balcony, his head snaps over. He sees where Lindir has fallen asleep on the couch, the book in his lap now held askew. Though books were once the height of Erestor’s concerns, its bent spine is no longer what captures his attention. He looks at the small child snuggled against the beige cushions, and his heart swells. 

A single year means little to an elf, but the past twelve months have changed Erestor’s life immeasurably. When he first headed the delegation to the Woodland Realm, intent only on negotiating a new trade treaty on his lord’s behalf, he never imagined it would take all four seasons, and that his time would mostly go to something else entirely. But he can vividly remember how it first felt to have a little elf run into his legs, cling to and cry into his robes, hide behind him and beg for his protection. A guard had come to collect Lindir shortly after, and Erestor, always a stickler for the rules, had of course acquiesced and ushered the child away. 

He still feels guilt over that. He rises from his chair, strolling across the room, and wonders just how many other times Lindir cried before Erestor came. How many after, when Erestor could’ve saved him, but left him in the hands of the Greenwood. Erestor hadn’t known then, like he does now, how different the lives of their children are. Elrond would _never_ put such young things through such rigorous training, flinging them free into long-corrupted woods with only thin swords almost too heavy for their hands. It doesn’t matter that they were watched, that the guards promised Erestor Lindir was never far from their sight. Lindir was _terrified_ , and Erestor, one who’s spent far more time as a councilor than a warrior, can’t blame him. 

Erestor had swiftly learned to hide Lindir away when the guards came looking, and to fill his head with songs and stories of other things, other places, that didn’t concern combat and monsters. Lindir never knew you could _just_ be a minstrel before, or you that could spend all your evenings in a library without the use of bow and arrows. And Lindir’s eyes grew wide and round when Erestor told him there was no shame in choosing not to fight. 

Erestor reaches the couch and takes the book away, closing it properly and bringing it to the shelf. If Lindir were still awake, he would try to put it away himself, although he might struggle to reach the top shelf where it belongs. He’s very tidy. Very neat, organized, and eager to _learn_ —he wanted to help Erestor often and was a wonder at sorting Erestor’s notes, at copying them out in proper lists, at ferrying messages between the delegation and learning more when Erestor loaned him the books. Lindir reminds Erestor faintly of when _he_ was a child, though he was never _quite_ so scared. Perhaps if he’d been forced to face spiders several times his size, he would’ve been.

But he was afforded a better life, and this kind creature deserves that, no matter where he was born or what happened to his parents. He smiles faintly in his sleep, nuzzling into the couch, and Erestor hopes his dreams are fair and just. Erestor fetches a folded blanket from the chair in the corner and brings it to drape over Lindir’s little shoulders. There’s no sense carrying him to bed yet—Erestor still has work to do, and if Lindir wakes up in the middle of the night, he won’t want to be alone. 

Erestor brushes his dark hair over the blanket and bends low to press a kiss against his forehead. When Erestor rises again, a knock sounds on his door. 

Erestor’s breath hitches, but he still turns towards it. He knows what’s coming, what’s been coming ever since his return, and he knew, of course, that he could hardly hide this forever. Resigned but determined, he twists the handle, opening it to find Lord Elrond on the other side. 

Expecting it doesn’t make it any easier. Erestor steels himself over to hide the faint flicker of fear this brings him, and he bows his head politely, stepping back to offer entry. Elrond sweeps inside. 

He stops when he sees the sleeping figure on the couch. Then he asks quietly, “That is the child?”

“Yes,” Erestor answers, because there’s no use hiding it any longer, and he can’t lie to his lord. He doesn’t ask which member of his party reported him. He nods towards the balcony behind his desk and suggests, “We may speak of it outside.”

Elrond nods and follows when Erestor moves. Elrond must be angry, Erestor imagines, though it’s a rare emotion for him, but he still wouldn’t wish to disturb a child’s rest. They slip through the white curtains to the balcony outside, automatically drifting for the railing, where the rest of Imladris glows blue and yellow in the moonlight, filled with distant songs and the flicker of ever-lit candles. It’s a beautiful place, this view one to be treasured. Lindir was in awe the first time he stepped through the gates, clinging tightly to Erestor’s hand but looking everywhere at once. He even asked Erestor: _“Is this Valinor?”_

Erestor told him no and made a mental note to teach him the proper history and geography of their world. The Woodland Realm, apparently, taught little else beyond its own borders, and a sharp mind like Lindir’s deserved far more. 

As Erestor looks out across his home, Elrond asks him only, “What were you _thinking_?” 

For most of the journey back, Erestor tried to figure that out for himself. But there was no easy answer, still isn’t, and he doesn’t know what to say. He manages slowly, “The negotiations went on far longer than expected...”

“For a year,” Elrond provides. “But I have known you for centuries, and you have never done a thing like this. You have never even shown an interest in children, let alone having one of your own.”

Erestor winces, because he can hear the unspoken disapproval in Elrond’s voice. It’s difficult to face him like this, because Erestor’s been the picture of propriety for years—he knows his reputation is one of sternness, composure, thought—he was always anything but _reckless_. He wishes he could explain. He tries, “It is not _children_... it is _this_ child. He... changed me.” Pausing, Erestor glances down at his hands, nearly white-knuckled on the railing. He forces himself to relinquish that grip and takes a breath to relax. When he finally looks at Elrond, it’s still hard, but he forces himself through. “I grew very close to him. He was not like the others there, Elrond. He is... a gentle spirit. A scholar, or a minstrel, perhaps, but not one of the soldiers they require. He came to me and confided in me. And I, in turn, grew to love him. I know this must seem abrupt, but... he is like a son to me now. And I cannot let him go.”

Elrond looks at him for a long minute, hearing and digesting every word. Elrond’s long been a good listener, but Erestor knows his words won’t be enough. Elrond finally tells him with a note of quiet sympathy, “I am sorry, Erestor. ...But that is not how the adoption process works.”

Sighing, Erestor shakes his head. “I know that, Elrond. I do. I understand the rules better than most. ...But in this case, the proper channels could take _years_. And Lindir would suffer in the meantime. He does not belong there. If you could have seen him... seen the way he cried every morning, and how sweetly he smiled in my arms...” Erestor trails off, because there is no way to convey that sight. He can only hope that Elrond, the most loving father Erestor’s ever known, might understand. When Elrond says nothing, only continues to hold his gaze, Erestor quietly finishes, “If King Thranduil is that angry, I will return him. ...But I would have to stay there too. It would break my heart to leave Imladris, but it would do so more to leave him.”

Though Elrond’s expression remains grave, some of the hardness has seeped out of it. He looks at Erestor with a sort of bitter helplessness that Erestor feels just as keenly. 

“Erestor?” a quiet voice interrupts, and Erestor looks back towards his office, where Lindir has emerged from the curtains, deliberately hanging back. He mumbles, “Are you in trouble because of me?”

Erestor’s heart clenches, a smile gracing his lips before he can stop it. He bends down and offers out a hand, ushering Lindir closer with a soft, “Come here, Lindir. I want you to meet Lord Elrond.”

Lindir turns enormous eyes on Elrond, face immediately reverent—Erestor doubts he ever got that close to Thranduil. Then he rushes forward to hug Erestor around the middle, half hiding behind him. When Erestor finally tears himself away from fondly patting Lindir’s head, he finds Elrond’s resolve visibly melting. Lindir timidly asks, “Do I have to go back to the scary forest?”

Elrond’s mouth opens, but the first time, he closes it again. After a short pause, he tells Lindir softly, “No, little one.” Erestor has to physically restrain his swell of relief, and Elrond glances up to him to continue, “But your step-father has many letters to write concerning your stay here.”

Erestor nods. He will fill out all the proper forms, and he’ll even write Thranduil a personal apology, so long as it allows Lindir to remain with him. Lindir insists, “I will help!” 

There’s nothing Lindir can do, but Erestor still coos, “Thank you,” and affectionately ruffles his hair. Lindir giggles and ducks away. Then Erestor tells him, “Now, let us get you back to bed.” When he bends down, Lindir opens his little arms, easily allowing Erestor to scoop him up. He’s as light as he is thin and small, and he clings to Erestor’s neck without pulling any of Erestor’s hair, just staying in place. Erestor gives Elrond a look of immeasurable gratitude, and then he carries his step-son back inside.


End file.
